


Something Personal

by tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Trash Party Adject, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-05-01 12:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: The Hydra thing… it was an issue. But Steve hopes to get his lover back from the arms of Hydra. It may take… a while.





	Something Personal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Didn't see that coming - Only art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170694) by [Fancy_Dragonqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancy_Dragonqueen/pseuds/Fancy_Dragonqueen), [tisfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan). 



****

“You’ve got me pulling a lot of strings, Captain,” Nat said, throwing a folder on his desk. She looked tired, and Steve had never seen Nat looking tired before.

“I know, but I don’t have anyone else,” Steve said, and that was true. Not that he could trust, at any rate. Shield was Hydra, and Hydra was sunk into the bottom of the Potomac, but everything that Nat had been able to dig up thought that maybe Hydra wasn’t as dead as they wanted to believe.

Not to mention the other fallout.

Some Shield agents had been loyal, or might have been loyal, or might just not have known that Hydra was there, like a weed.

And Steve and Nat had come in, stamping out the weeds, and now the lawn was dead and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. They couldn’t have taken any more time. Insight had been ready to launch, there hadn’t been time, damnit.

“For a ninety eight year old guy, you’d think I’d find the time to take a vacation,” Steve said.

“I don’t know if you missed the memo,” Nat said, “but the boss is supposed to be dead. You don’t, actually, have a job anymore.”

“I’m still an Avenger,” Steve pointed out. Not that he could entirely trust them anymore, either. Clint had been SHIELD. Nat had been SHIELD, and while he trusted her now, he hadn’t always. And for good damn reasons, too, as it turned out. Fury-- Steve still didn’t know if he trusted that guy or not. Fury might not have been on Hydra’s side, might have fought with them against Pierce, but Fury played his cards way too close.

He trusted Stark not to be Hydra, but he also didn’t trust Stark to be on anyone’s side but his own.

It was going around.

“That’s your keep out of jail card, not really a job. Tony’s not going to fire you if you take a week or so off, even if what you’re doing is tracking down an old friend. In fact, he’ll probably fund it. I can talk to Hill, set it up.”

“Yeah, do that, if you don’t mind.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what any of you boys would do without me.”

“Make a mess,” Steve said.

“You already do that,” Nat told him. “Do you want some company for this? I knew him, too, you know.”

Steve opened the folder, looked down at the picture. “No, not this time.”

The inside of the folder was stamped with blood red ink, the skull with tentacles. Hydra. No, this time, Steve wasn’t going to be fooled. Hydra was alive until Steve personally found them all. If they’d been associated or tainted or just fooled.

Starting with Brock Rumlow.

What they had on Brock showed a rapid rise, first through military special forces and then through SHIELD. Missions, skills, certifications. Master Tactician, Expert Marksman, formidable hand-to-hand. He’d been the perfect little soldier. Keeping the world free for democracy.

 This isn’t freedom, it’s fear.

What Steve didn’t know, and what SHIELD’s databases failed to note, was; had Brock gone into SHIELD with good intentions and become groomed from within to serve Hydra, or had he always been Hydra?

The picture, black and white, was a formal, showing Brock in his uniform, facing the camera, those deep eyes seeming to stare out of the frame toward some distant goal. He’d always had such an intense gaze. Steve could have lost himself in those eyes.

_What side were you on, aside from your own, Brock?_

***

The beach was nice, Steve thought. It was nice to be able to swim in sunlit waters and not worry that there were terrorist scuba divers under him. It was nice to lay on one of the pool chairs and not worry that he was going to get a sunburn. He didn’t tan, not really, but he got sort of freckled and sometimes his skin itched, which he assumed was the serum healing up a burn. _Still Irish, Ma_ , he thought.

Despite everything, he hoped that Rumlow was at the beach, that he was pretending to be a tourist, that he was enjoying himself, even though he was on the run.

Brock deserved a vacation.

Steve shifted his sunglasses, the sun was very bright and his eyes were more sensitive than they’d ever been, he could see further than humanly possible. He could see fast enough to dodge bullets.

Which also meant looking into the sun accidentally was painful.

It healed quick enough, but still. He couldn’t help but flutter his eyes open and closed, even when he was supposed to be dosing by the pool. He was just too paranoid, he guessed. He felt the footsteps vibrating through the cement long before his ears could detect them. Not his waiter who’d brought him several fruity drinks. They had alcohol in them, Steve could taste the bite, but it did nothing for him.

That said, they were still pretty good. Fruit smoothies.

Steve didn’t bother to sit up. No sense in letting the stranger know the range of Steve’s senses. But he was more on alert. He didn’t much like guns, but he had one, under his beach towel. The shield was a little obvious, really.

“Mr. Rogers?”

Steve nodded, propped the sunglasses up on his forehead. “That’s me, son,” he said.

The man was probably in his fifties, and thus confused to the appellation, but he shrugged and offered Steve a Fedex envelope. “This arrived for you, sir.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. He took it, and then waited pointedly for the guy to move off.

He sniffed. Mailroom, sweat, sand. Underneath, metal and plastic and glass. It probably wasn’t a bomb, most explosives were easily detectable by smell. Well, for someone who had a souped up sense of smell.

Screw it, he decided. If it was a bomb, the pool wasn’t far away, and there weren’t people around to get blown up.

It was not a bomb.

It was a cell phone. An older model, the sort that Natasha had told him were often burner phones. Not _untraceable_ , but usually paid for with cash that often led to grainy security footage which would lead back to a courier. More tail chasing.

Steve missed the days when the bad guys just had red skulls and wore logos. This spy shit, this Cold War nonsense, was difficult to negotiate.

Steve was not a good spy.

He did have friends who were decent spies, though. He would have Natasha look into it.

It rang.

Steve answered it, but he didn’t say anything, listening into the tiny speaker for all he was worth for any clues.

“It’s a good look on you,” Rumlow said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d actually think you’re enjoying yourself.”

“What makes you think you know better?”

“Cap, please,” Rumlow said, “don’t you think I know you better?”

Steve turned slowly. Rumlow might be able to see him from wherever he was making the call. Steve and Sam had done that before. Watching, listening. Focusing. Everything was focused on every breath and every sound that Rumlow made. Which was familiar, and even Steve wasn’t so deep in denial as to understand why that was. “I’m not here as Cap,” Steve said. “I’m here as your friend.”

“Is that what we were, Cap? _Friends_?”

“You know that isn’t true,” Steve said. “Let me help you, I want to help you.”

“Just like you helped your pal, your buddy, your… _Bucky_.” That was said with a sneer and a pang of some emotion, and Steve tried hard to keep his own face smooth, his own turbulent emotions quiescent, to pretend like Rumlow hadn’t scored a point. That maybe Steve deserved it. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. Her open book, Ma had once called him, and that was true. Steve not only wore his heart on his sleeve, but he usually painted a target over it.

_Hit me here_ , it seemed to say.

“You’re the one who called me,” Steve suggested. “You know I’m looking for you, so this-- this conversation right here, this is your choice, Brock. What do you want?”

There was a pause, right before the answer, that said more than the answer. “Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness. You know, the _American_ way.”

All the spit in Steve’s mouth went dry and he couldn’t think for sudden wanting. “You can have that,” he promised. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Oh, look around, Cap,” Rumlow said. “ _Everything’s_ changed.”

“Not this,” Steve swore, and he clenched his fist so hard that his knuckles ached. “Never this.”

“How can I trust that it’s not a trap?”

“Well, it’s… something personal.”

***

Rumlow vanished and Steve wasn’t surprised.

A week later, something pinged on Steve’s radar in Guatemala, and Steve obediently went there, unable to resist the temptation. No Rumlow. No phone. No coy message.

On the other hand, when he got back to New York, a postcard from the thermal baths at Almolonga was waiting for him in his fan mail. It wasn’t signed, there was no note. But Steve knew. _He knew_.

There wasn’t any choice but to keep digging, to keep looking. It was something personal.

***

“Cap?”

Steve sighed. He had an office, although honestly he didn’t know why. But it felt somehow useful for him to go sit in it sometimes, to read through the stacks of reports that the New Shield sometimes left on his desk. To thumb through the information that Natasha had put out on the internet during the Fall.

Like he was doing something productive, even if what he was doing was spinning his damn wheels.

Steve didn’t bother to answer, he just looked up to see an agent, someone he didn’t know. Someone…

He raised his eyebrows.

“We have him, sir,” the agent said.

Steve didn’t bother to ask _who_. It was either Bucky or Brock, and in either case, he wanted -- he needed -- to see them right away.[]

When it turned out that it was Brock, Steve had to work to control his expression. He wasn’t sure it he was relieved that it wasn’t Bucky, or if he was disappointed that it wasn’t Bucky.

Brock was locked down, hands in front of him on a table, legs cuffed to the chair legs. It wasn’t a comfortable position. Steve had been locked like that before.

Mostly naked, he’d been allowed a pair of simple, Shield issue boxerbriefs. He’d probably been stripped, searched, _searched_ , and then scanned. No hidden weapons, no surprises. Except the ones that might come out of his mouth.

“Did you check his teeth?” Steve asked. He’d seen that before, Hydra agents who committed suicide.

“Yes, Captain,” the underling told him. “More than once.”

“Did he say anything?” Because that was the real question, wasn’t it? Had Brock said… anything?

“Said he wanted to see you,” the man reported. “That was all. Aside from all the curse words and threats. You know how these Hydra guys are.”

“I do,” Steve said. He thumbed through the file as if it mattered. “Anyone particularly attached to this guy?” Like Steve didn’t know. Like Steve wasn’t _attached_. But what he was asking, and what the Shield guy would hear, was “will someone mind terribly if Brock Rumlow turns up with a case of dead.”

“Under normal circumstances, sir, we’d like to keep him alive for questioning,” the man said, and Steve could hear traces of someone who’d once trained under Coulson. “But everyone’s dead, as the saying goes. People who care about Pierce’s involvement-- well, Pierce is dead. The Director is dead. Shield’s in a turmoil, and no one really knows. It’s been a bad few months.” The man put a pencil in the file, straightened the papers, and faced Steve directly. “He could disappear and no one would ask any questions. Captain.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Steve said. “In the meanwhile, bring food, water. We may not know who we are anymore, but we’re not that.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“And turn off the recorders. All of them.”

“Right,” the man said. “Will do.”

Steve waited until he could no longer hear the man’s footsteps. The monitors in the fishbowl room went dead. He knew where the cameras were, but breaking them always meant answering more questions. Even if he was Captain America.

Steve took several breaths, trying to steady his nerves.

Finally, when his resting heart rate was back to less than seventy beats per minute, Steve reached for the door, opened it.

Pulled the door closed behind him, and looked at Brock.

“Hey, pal,” Steve said. “Didn’t really expect to see you in a chair.”

“Cap,” Rumlow said, looking up.

He was naked enough that Steve could see every bruise forming on him, scars on one side of his face that were barely healed, and bent fingers that hadn’t straightened right after being broken. The building had come down on Brock’s head, and Steve wasn’t sure how he was still alive.

But some of those bruises were fresh, a few cuts bled sluggishly. Medical care, Steve thought.

“Still nothing personal, Brock?” Steve wondered.

He wondered what would have happened, if the news choppers hadn’t been overhead. Can’t murder Captain America on national television, hey, right, pal? Would Brock actually have pulled the trigger? And if he hadn’t, what would Steve have done then? Sacrificed himself for his friends, was that the play Brock had been hoping for. Kill me, keep me, let them go?

Steve’s belly twisted.

_Keep me. Let them go._

“You expect me to answer that? Feels personal,” Brock said, grinning. He always was filled to the very brim with bravado.

“It is personal,” Steve said. “It is very _fucking_ personal.”

“Oh, Cap,” Brock said, that grin stretching even wider, reminding Steve of just how flexible Brock’s mouth was. “You didn’t have to break out the bad words on my account.”[]

“So, you know what’s going to happen, I expect?”

“The usual. Torture, thrown in a dark hole, never formally charged. Unpersoned. For the greater good. What’s going to happen on your end? Guilt? You gonna feel bad about what happens to me, Cap?”

“I shouldn’t,” Steve said. He scowled. “You’re a traitor.”

“And yet--”

“So, this is what we’re going to do,” Steve said, not really looking at Brock, not looking at that sensual mouth, and certainly not thinking about everything he ever wanted to do. “We’re gonna see how personal it is. I’m going to give you three choices, use ‘em how you see fit.”

“Oh, here we go,” Brock said.

“I’m going to arrange… a little opportunity for you. You’ll know when it happens,” Steve said. “You can stay, don’t take the opportunity, let SHIELD throw you in a hole, and maybe I’ll come visit once in a while.”

“Unappealing,” Brock said. “Next?”

“Take the opportunity,” Steve said, “Disappear. No Hydra, no SHIELD. I won’t look for you. And if I ever see you again, it will be the very last time. I’ll kill you with my own hands. No Hydra. No SHIELD.”

“Ballsy,” Brock said. “You really think you can take me.”

Steve snorted. “Do you really think I can’t?”

“You’re not usually a killer, Cap.”

“I might make an exception,” Steve remarked, as if they were talking about nothing more important than his dislike of peas.

“I’m flattered. Go on.”

“Take the opportunity,” Steve said, trying not to sound as desperate as he was. _Give me a chance to save you, Brock. Be the man I know you could be._ “I’m going to take a vacation, ten days. I think I’ve earned it. Thought I might go out to my gram’s place. You know the one.” Even without the recording, even when asking for privacy, Steve knew he may not have it. Don’t give them too much. Even as it was, he was risking everything. Everything. For Brock fucking Rumlow.

“Sounds nice,” Brock said.

“Yeah, it does.”

***

Steve threw his duffle onto the camp cot. It wasn’t actually his gram’s place, his family had been so dirt poor that something like owning a second home was outlandish. They barely paid the rents, most of the time.

But she’d talked about it a few times, how she wanted a house on the side of a lake, away from the city, where she could raise sunflowers.

Steve had ridiculous amounts of money these days. More than he knew what to do with, even if Tony had allowed him to pay for anything he needed. Which most of the time, Tony didn’t.

So, one of the things he’d done was bought this property, a cabin on a lake. He talked with Pepper, who’d put him in touch with a shell company. Somewhere, someone might be able to untangle the red tape and figure out that this was Steve’s home, but as far as he knew, no one had.

He kept it as a kind of retreat, and he was careful when he went there, to leave all his electronics behind aside from a burner phone that he’d use to check a mailbox. Just in case the Avengers really needed him. He was pretty sure if something so earth shattering happened that he was required, he’d hear it on the news.

A few years back, Steve had totally redone the basement. Quietly. To his exacting specifications. And then he’d brought Brock there.

Steve scrubbed his face, looking in the mirror.

He looked _tired_. Younger than he felt.

The serum did a lot for him, but it couldn’t touch that world-weariness that built up in him. He’d come here to try to cure it, and found an unexpected way to do that.

Now, just to wait and see if Brock would take the bait.

Take a chance.

_Come home, baby. Please._

Three days. It took three days for Brock to decide it wasn’t a trap. Or, it was, but it was a trap that he could let himself fall into.

And of course there had to be a fight, because these things always ended in a fight. Brock was strong, and he was tough, and he was a canny fighter, but in the end, Steve knocked him down and pinned his arms. “Give up, Brock,” Steve said. “I can do this all day.”

For a moment, Brock’s arms tightened, and Steve worried that he might actually have to hurt Brock to keep him down, but then Brock sighed and all the tension went out of him. “You got a plan, boss?”

“Yeah, I got a plan,” Steve said. “But you’re going to have to earn it.” He pushed Brock’s wrists higher, until the man made a soft keening sound. “Are you cool with that?” Knowing it didn’t matter, that it had never mattered. Not between them. Brock needed what he needed, and Steve was one of the people who could give it to him.

Even if this one time was the last time, Brock would say yes. Or he’d say no, and that didn’t matter either. It was going to happen. They’d come too far to back down now.

“Startin’ to want you to make me,” Brock said, and Steve felt that all the way from the back of his throat down to his balls.

“You think I _can’t_?”

Brock struggled again, and Steve put a knee in the center of his back, holding him down. “I know you can, Captain.”

And it had to be a struggle, every minute of it, because Brock couldn’t do any less. For someone who wanted to be caught, who wanted it to end, Brock also couldn’t help fighting. He was a fighter. Like Steve. That was only one of the bonds between them.

But eventually, Steve got there. He discovered, once again, that it was hard as hell to keep Brock pinned long enough to get ropes on him, but he did, and at least Brock was wearing civvies, instead of his armor, which meant he’d known what he was walking into.

Civvies were easy to tear and remove. Armor-- well, they’d done that once before, too, and while it had still happened, explaining to SHIELD what, exactly, had happened to Brock’s fibermesh shirt, that had been an exercise in creative storytelling. Nat might have known the truth. Every time she baited him with another “you should date Shelly in accounting,” he and Brock had ended up in another all night session while the man worked through his jealousy issues, and once again showed Steve how much Steve _needed_.  

The rope was specially made, extra strong, and Steve was very, very good at knots.

But Brock still struggled, making it a thing, and by the time he was secured, and naked, and bound to the end of Steve’s bed, the ropes had dug cruelly into his skin, the flesh white and strained around them, bruises and rope burn and rug burn against Brock’s body.

It was beautiful. Sublime. Order came from pain. Brock would be so beautiful, unspeakably lovely, when he was back in order.

Thinking it, Steve said so, and Brock hissed at him like an angry cat. “ _Beautiful_? Maybe once, Cap, but not anymore.” He tipped his head to better display those scars, down his cheek, the way his hair had been snatched from part of his scalp and hadn’t grown back in, the way his lip was pulled into an almost permanent sneer.

“You think beautiful is skin deep?”

“I think ugly goes right to the bone and we both know it,” Brock said. “You knew it, once. Before Captain America, before the serum, how people look right through you and you’re not even fuckin’ there anymore.”

Steve touched Brock’s face, gentle. So gentle and soft that Brock snarled again and snapped, trying to bite Steve’s fingers.

“Don’t fuck with me, man, you know it’s true, stop trying to help me and just fuckin’ do it.”

Steve didn’t even hesitate; instead of touching gently, he slapped Brock across the face. A dull backhand, knocking him sideways for a second, then the red mark showed up, burning like a blush. “Don’t tell me what to do,” Steve warned.

“There’s my Captain,” Brock said, his mouth curling up into a smirk. “Was beginning to think this whole fall of Hydra shit made you go soft. Want to talk it out and cuddle?”

“Later,” Steve said, and that was a promise, too. Brock was stubborn and all kinds of stupid. Hostile and beyond bratty and all the way in to needing to be put down hard, but once he got there-- once he got there, Brock could be so sweet.

And what Brock needed, in order to get there, was to let go.

Steve knew that feeling. How he held onto his composure with both hands, fingernails digging into steel, kicking and snarling the whole time, because as soon as he let go, everything was gone, and lost.

Steve slapped him again, the other cheek. Brock snarled. “Go on, hit me again,” he dared Steve, fucking dared him.

Steve hit him again. Harder.

Brock spit out a stream of saliva and blood. “Yeah, getting your arm into it, I see,” and when Brock smiled, there was blood in his teeth.

“You betrayed me,” Steve said, still deceptively calm. “Tell me why I shouldn’t wring your neck.”

“Choking me, Captain?” Brock asked, and then licked his lip, probing delicately at the sluggishly bleeding cut. “Seems like we’re skipping some steps. You’ve still got your pants on.”

“Oh, we’ll get there, don’t worry,” Steve said. “You are going to get everything that’s coming to you and then some. You tell me why I shouldn’t just use you and turn you over to the authorities.”

“Do you even know who they are, anymore? Who’s the authorities, and what are they in charge of? You think Widow’s little round up caught them all. Do you know who you’re looking for?”

“You betrayed me,” Steve repeated. “Why?”

“Did I hurt your feelings, Captain?”

Steve planted both hands on Brock’s bare chest and shoved him, relishing the sound his head made when it hit the floor.

“Ow, damn, you really are pissed, Stevie,” Brock chuckled from his position, even though the ropes had to hurt, even though his skull was probably ringing. “I might even think you still care about me.”

_I love you, you idiot._

Steve couldn’t say that, he could probably never say that, not when Brock wasn’t deep in subspace. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , accept it.

“I’d miss having easy access to you,” Steve said, instead. He grabbed Brock by the ropes and roughly put him back on the bed, brushing his hands over Brock’s skin as if to dust him off.

“Well, you know me, captain,” Brock said, panting for breath and swaying just a little. “Need me some order in my life.”

“Discipline comes from order,” Steve said. “Order… comes from pain.”

“Did you ever even know I was putting Hydra’s words in your mouth?” Brock wheezed out a laugh. “Along with certain, other things?”

“You’ll get to choke on your words soon enough,” Steve said. _Along with certain other things._ Steve didn’t need to say that. Brock knew.

Waiting for the punishment to begin, Steve knew, was often the worst part. Anticipation drew it out, and Brock would get twitchy, mouthy (well, mouthier, Brock was always mouthy) trying to drive Steve into a rage. To get it started, because the sooner it started, the sooner it was done.

When they were playing, when it was all a game, Steve would sometimes make Brock stand in the corner, entirely unbound, entirely naked, to await his punishment. This time, well, Steve couldn’t trust him to stay put. If Brock ran, again, Steve would put him down. Again.

Steve ran his hands down Brock again, checking to see if the ropes were putting his circulation in more danger. Seemed okay. A little tight, there would be bruises and rope burns. Good.

He shifted, pushed Brock down, the frog tie forcing his legs apart, the way his hands were bound, bent at the elbows and secure, made him wince. Steve pushed down on his neck until Brock was bent over, ass prominently displayed, face against the sheets. Steve clipped the leash to the underside of the bed, keeping Brock’s position there, utterly subservient, completely vulnerable.

Another tie, and his legs were secured. Brock had enough room to wiggle a few precious inches, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Hey, Cap, what’s my safe word?” Brock asked, not meaning it at all, still sneering. Mocking Steve, wanting him to be angry.

“Your safe word,” Steve said, tugging Brock’s shorts down, then deciding he didn’t like the look and just ripping the fabric, “is to convince me of your sincerity. And then maybe, I’ll decide you have enough.”

They both knew there was only one way this was going to end.

Steve plucked a bamboo spatula from the box of tools; starting with a paddle of some sort was always the best way. Steve’s hand was hard and his strength was all out of proportion.

He smacked Brock’s ass with it, eliciting a sharp exhale and the sound of the crack echoed in the room.

Brock was stoic; it often took a while to get him loose enough to get any begging, pleading, or even whining.

At this point, Steve won’t even ask Brock to count.

But Steve counted; he would remember every stroke, every soft sigh, every sharp gasp. The way the wood sounded on Brock’s flesh, the way the stroke vibrated up Steve’s arm. The way his cock swelled in his trousers.

For a while, there’s no sound, except for the smack of the spatula and the heavy rasp of Brock’s breathing. Steve is almost perfectly silent, watching each shiver and tremor. When Brock’s ass is practically glowing red, Steve paused to admire his handiwork.

He ran his hands over the hot, abused skin, pulling Brock’s cheeks apart to look at his hole, reaching between Brock’s legs to see if he had gotten hard. Brock was only half erect, which either meant Steve was hitting him too hard, or not quite hard enough.

Either direction would work for Brock, sometimes he wanted to be coddled, sometimes he wanted to be convinced. Steve put the spatula back in the box and took out a thin paddle, similar to a ping pong paddle, with holes drilled in it for extra sting. One side was smooth, the other had a bumpy, abrasive surface.

Steve rubbed the abrasive, sandpaper surface over Brock’s stinging, red skin, making him squirm, writhe. A few pained whines leaked out of his throat, and when Steve spun the paddle to smack with the other side, Brock actually cursed. “Fuck.”

“Not yet, sweetheart,” Steve said, and the way Brock’s whole body stiffened with indignation at the pet name was beautiful. Steve had broken through the stoicism, had put Brock in the right place where he could think, and more importantly, feel. “I don’t think you’re sorry for what you did.”

Brock growled, snarled, straining at his bonds, but it was useless. He wasn’t going anywhere. The tattoo of hard wood on Brock’s ass built to a burn that would have had him kicking and struggling, if there’d been any way he could have managed those things.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but take it.

The way Steve couldn’t do anything but take it when Brock put a gun to his head.

Ten smacks, and then Steve switched sides of the paddle again, staying on the one side, the same damn spot until Brock’s skin was cheerful red, hot to the touch. He switched to the other side, the relative tame throbbing of the right thrown into shock with the sudden pain.

He’d counted thirty on each side before Brock was whining and whimpering with each swat.

“Aww. Poor baby,” Steve said, gripping Brock’s ass, one cheek in each huge hand, and spreading them, listening to the way Brock hissed and swore under his breath. The salt on Steve’s palms would sting in the few, superficial cuts.

Steve massaged that round, red add, squeezing, kneading. He pushed against Brock’s ass, rubbing his cock against the split; knowing that the rub and friction of his pants made things even worse.

“How’s that sincerity feeling to you?”

“Lemme go, you son of a bitch, you let me go--”

“Not very, all right. You want me to ice you down, or wind you up?”

Brock sucked in a breath. An icing would be temporary relief from the pain and heat and swelling, but when it was done and Steve warmed him back up again, quite possible with a switch, it would be worse, so much worse.

Winding Brock up was more fun; a vibrator in his ass, attached to the cock ring, to get him hard, keep him hard, and stimulated until pleasure reached the very edge of pain. A spanking, even with Steve’s hand, would be torture, torture that Brock wanted, ached for, needed. Begged for it, usually.

He could practically hear Brock thinking about it, trying to decide what to say. What he wanted, versus what he thought Steve wanted to hear. And what Steve would do with whatever Brock decided anyway.

“Not yet, then?” Steve asked, after waiting at least two minutes for Brock to make a choice. He rubbed the rough side of the paddle against Brock’s ass, smacked him five times with barely a pause for breath, repeated the performance on the other side. Brock was cursing him, snarling, raging. Still not quite there.

“ _Chose_. Chose, or it’s both.” He waited another beat, then added, “It’s _nothing personal_.”

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Brock said, and at least this time there was respect, and awe, and not loathing, angry hostility.

“Both? Or--”

Brock snarled, helpless and then, softly, “not the ice.”

“Good boy,” Steve told him, patting him several times on the ass, despite how red and sore it had to be.

Steve was tempted to give him the ice anyway, because Brock needed to know, he needed to be reminded, of his place, that everything he got came from Steve, and it didn’t matter--

But no, Steve wanted him to behave better. And it was _personal_.

Steve got lube and the vibrating plug, but he also leaned hard on Brock’s ass, hand spread to cover as much of that livid, tender flesh as possible, while he pushed it in. Breaching Brock’s hole, twisting, letting the vibrations tease and torment the nerves around Brock’s hole, listening to the man swear and moan, and finally whine for it. The way Brock pushed back, despite the pain in his tender hindparts.

“There you are, right about--”

“Yes, god!” Brock’s voice was a strangled thing of need and desire and humiliation. That his enemy, that Captain America, that Steve fucking Rogers, could do this to him.

That he _would_ do it.

Steve got the plug situated exactly right, then thumbed the remote until he could feel the powerful vibrations. No more teasing, he wanted Brock overstimulated now. A few strokes of Brock’s dick with the lube slicked hand got him hard as a rock, leaking precome, pushing into Steve’s slick fist, and then back toward the plug, trapped between the two sensations.

Steve slipped the cock ring on, keeping blood in Brock’s dick.

“Don’t you just look pretty and desperate now?” Steve observed. “Look up at me, tell me you’re sorry.”

Brock managed to lift his head, cheek scarred and mouth pulled up in that twist. There was still fire in his eye, still rage left in his spirit.

“Hail Hydra.”

Steve shook his head, blew air out in a puff. He picked up the paddle. “You know, Brock…” he said, twisting the handle and showing off the flexibility of his wrist. “I can do this all day.” 


End file.
